


An Itch

by The 8th Guest (VZG)



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slurs, Tarantino-Typical Language, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-19
Updated: 2009-10-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7544683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VZG/pseuds/The%208th%20Guest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donny doesn't trust Stiglitz, and he's not queer, 'cause it's just not about that.</p><p>(It's totally about that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Itch

Before they even officially agreed to bust out Stiglitz, Aldo had issued strict orders to all his men to not start any fights with him; they either had to agree to take him and let that be that or just decide they were better off without him. In-fighting had no place among the Basterds, not if it got the point where one of them was bound to get killed. In the end, none of them could deny that an extra man, especially one so ruthless as Hugo Stiglitz, would be a great asset indeed.

So the issue was — and there was an issue, of course — that Donny hadn't realized just how much having a Nazi (ex-Nazi, Aldo said) in his presence day in and day out would piss him off. It just made matters worse that he didn't seem like he wanted to even speak to the rest of them. Sure, he acknowledged then when he needed to, but in his first few weeks with the Basterds he barely opened his mouth to speak to anyone but Aldo and occasionally Wicki. And he watched them, like a dog watching over sheep — or a wolf.

No, Donny did not like it one bit. He kept his word, though, and didn't say a damned thing to Stiglitz's face. Aldo hadn't barred behind-the-back talk, though, so every time Stiglitz went off to piss or settled in to sleep before the rest of them, he was running his mouth about that Nazi fucker and how much he just wished he'd turn already so he could take his bat to his face. Most of the guys just nodded along or shrugged, and Aldo gave him sharp warning looks, but as soon as he got back or stirred from his sleep Donny clammed up anyway.

Still, it didn't take him entirely by surprise when he found himself pressed against the side of a stone bridge by Stiglitz's hands. Kagan, Wicki, and Utivich were on the other side of it, setting up camp, and the rest of them had been sent out to hunt down food, water, firewood, and any stray Nazis that might've been passing through. Typically they went out for that in groups, but typically Donny broke off from his, and he came back with scalps or dead rabbits often enough that Aldo didn't say anything about it, even if it was a risk.

Apparently he was giving Stiglitz the same leeway. That did not sit well with Donny.

"The fuck is your problem?" he demanded, pushing against the hands with his chest, his own hands itching to go to his knife or gun. Until Stiglitz threw a punch, until he went for his own knife, though, he had to wait. He wouldn't have Aldo chewing him out for killing their pet Nazi without good reason when they went through all the trouble of busting him out in the first place.

"My problem?" Stiglitz asked, his mouth set in a serious line. "I don't have a problem. You do."

"Oh yeah? What's my problem, kraut?"

Stiglitz frowned, but let it pass. "You don't trust me."

Donny scoffed. "Really? You don't say! It's a goddamned wonder a Jew doesn't trust a fucking Nazi!"

He was pushing forward harder, but Stiglitz gave him one strong shove and his back was pressed against stone again. "What good would it do me to turn on you now?"

"I don't know! I don't get what's in your head!"

Stiglitz opened his mouth as if to reply, then stopped, considering. Donny had stopped struggling, seeing that Stiglitz wasn't going to rise to a fight, and in a moment Stiglitz shifted, suddenly pinning him with one arm pressed across the bottom of his ribs, his other hand going down.

Donny jumped at the feel of a hand at his crotch. "What the fuck?" He moved again, trying to slip away, but Stiglitz hold on him was tight, and in a moment his fly was undone and his dick was in the German's hand, and there was only so much control Donny could exercise over his reaction. A few strokes and it was clear blood was rushing to his cock in spite of him, and then Stiglitz fell to his knees and took him in his mouth, his arm pressing into his stomach.

Donny felt almost liked he'd been bowled over, the way the air rushed out of him at that. His anger and eagerness for a fight didn't dampen the sensations, and it had been a damned long time since he'd had his dick in something warm and wet and who was he to refuse a blow job? His thoughts flew out of his mind as his hands flew to Stiglitz's ears, not pulling or pushing, just gripping, providing something to hold on to. Stiglitz gave a grunt of protest, but his hands were occupied, the one not holding Donny back wrapped around the base of his cock, and Donny didn't give a damn about his comfort.

And, well, it had been a long time. His hand was good company, but nothing compared to having someone else get you off, and in no time he was thrusting shallow into Stiglitz's mouth, groaning low and not even having the presence of mind to hope the men on the other side of the bridge couldn't hear him. When Stiglitz draw his tongue up the vein on the underside of his dick and flicked across the slit, his fist following his lips, Donny lost it, shooting into his mouth without warning.

Stiglitz spit into the brush, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at Donny, still panting and standing with his cock hanging out of his pants, and then stood pulled him forward by his suspenders, their mouths coming together with such force that Donny felt his teeth rattle.

That brought the fighting spirit back into Donny, and he pushed Stiglitz hard, spitting and wiping his mouth just as the German had a moment before. He pointed at Stiglitz, his glare accusing. "Motherfucker, you're a goddamned queer!"

Stiglitz recovered quickly, giving him a bored look that said he thought Donny was an idiot. Without another word, he brushed himself off and turned, walking off as though they'd just had some civil, casual conversation. That only pissed Donny off more.

"I still don't trust you!" Donny called, but he was pretty sure that if Stiglitz heard him, the words didn't really have much effect anyway.

 

Donny gave Stiglitz a wider berth after that, but he talked behind his back even fiercer, even louder, hoping some of it might reach his ears. He glared, too, but never once did he mention a thing about the blowjob, not to Stiglitz and not to the other Basterds. He tried to forget it wholesale, but it crept into his half-sleeping mind, and if he shook it out he just wound up awake again and having to start the whole process of getting to sleep over again.

He wouldn't ever admit it, not even to himself, but there was some sense of relief in him when he found himself shoved against a tree by Stiglitz not a week later. He had no idea what prompted it, but he didn't have time to ask, because Stiglitz was on his knees with his lips around the head of his dick in under a minute, and Donny had one hand on a low branch and the other on the back of Stiglitz's head and he was gone. It seemed even better than last time even before Stiglitz's hand reached his balls, the extra stimulation driving his hips forward and his dick down Stiglitz's throat until he gagged.

It all stopped for a moment, almost. Stiglitz's hands dropped, and Donny was left thrusting into air while Stiglitz opened his own pants. He lapped at the head of Donny's cock, teasing, while he jerked himself off, quick and rough. It didn't take him long to come, and Donny absently thought that it might not've been so great to be a queer in the Nazi army, but then that mouth enveloped him again and the thought was gone. He shivered at the feel of slick, come-covered fingers against his balls, then jerked when they reached further back still.

"Hey," he protested, tapping the back of Stiglitz's head, perhaps too gently. "I ain't queer."

Stiglitz looked up at him briefly, and God but that was hot, sending a rush of heat right down to Donny's toes. Then he hummed, and Donny almost didn't notice the finger pressing in.

"Fuck, stop!" He pushed at Stiglitz's shoulders ineffectually, because he might not have been queer, but a blowjob was a blowjob and some part of him, some big part of him was not real willing to give that up.

When Stiglitz pushed in another finger it started to hurt, and he pressed harder, more insistently against Stiglitz, but he didn't disengage him before a jolt of unfamiliar pleasure shocked through him once, then again, and he was coming.

Afterwards, after Stiglitz spit and wiped his hand on Donny's boot, after Donny caught his breath, they stood up and walked away without a word.

 

The third time it happened, Donny felt comfortable in assuming they'd started a thing. A Thing, even, with a capital T to encompass the enormity of it. It didn't bother him much, because it was just about getting off and as long as he didn't put the effort into it it didn't make him queer, so if there was a Thing, it actually worked out pretty well on his end. He supposed it worked out for Stiglitz, too, from the way he seemed so eager to swallow down Donny's cock while jerking himself off, groaning deep in this throat and sending vibrations up through his spine, so it was a win-win, really.

He didn't even protest much when Stiglitz stuck the first finger up his ass, and he didn't protest at all with the second one, even through that bit of pain. Instead, he shivered, fucking shivered, in anticipation of it. There it was, another man sticking fingers covered in his own semen up Donny's ass, and he couldn't find a damn thing wrong with it so long as they tapped that magic spot inside him that made him see stars and feel better than he had the first time Anne Marie from down the street sat herself down on his cock and let him suck on her breast. He even found that he sort of liked the feel of the fingers just being in him before they hit it, that the pain was a sort of pleasure all on its own.

He couldn't say that to Stiglitz, couldn't say much at all when those lips were on his dick, but but he was pretty sure he got the message from his groans and gasps, since he kept on doing everything that felt right. That third time he even managed to figure out from the clenching of the muscles in Donny's stomach, and probably elsewhere, just when he was going to come, and he moved his mouth away and tapped that spot and it was done. Donny sort of missed being able to come in his mouth, but he wasn't going to protest, because it was a damn good blowjob anyway. He almost felt like he wanted to smile at Stiglitz, but instead he just slapped him on the shoulder and headed back to camp without him.

 

The thing was, well, there wasn't a Thing. He waited, and he fantasized freely; he even stopped talking about Stiglitz almost completely, because he still didn't trust him but he was pretty sure everyone had got the point and he didn't want to fuck the Thing up.

But nothing happened. He opened himself up for it, provided opportunities for Stiglitz to follow him just far away enough from the others, but just wound up disappointed each time.

It went on for two weeks. Two damned weeks and Stiglitz was acting like there wasn't anything different, like he didn't fucking love having Donny's cock shoved down his throat and coming at Donny's feet. That, that goddamned blatant denial of it, that pissed Donny off, and it fucking confused him. Stiglitz had been the one to start it; where the fuck did he get off fucking with Donny like that, anyway?

So one day, when there was just a hint of sun left in the sky and their fire was still burning bright, Donny watched Stiglitz head out into the woods and counted to twenty.

"I gotta piss," he announced, heading out at an angle to Stiglitz's path. As soon as he was sure he was out of sight, he turned sharply.

Stiglitz was just zipping up when he found him, and it was easy to turn him around and press him against the tree, to be the one in control. Stiglitz didn't look surprised in the least to see him, but Donny wasn't sure he ever looked very surprised at all anyway.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded, giving his shoulders a shake. "Are you fucking with me?"

Stiglitz raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of his lip turning up just slightly. "Does that mean you want it?"

Donny drew back slightly, as though he'd been struck. "What? Fuck, it doesn't mean— Just tell me what the fuck's going on!"

Stiglitz crossed his arms, leaning back against the tree and looking Donny up and down, considering. After a pause, he nodded. "Yes. I'm fucking with you."

Donny's mouth fell open slightly. He hadn't expected that. "Why? What the hell do you want from me?"

"I want you to ask for it."

As if it was that easy. As if Donny could just go up to another man and ask to be sucked off, as if that was okay. And the fingers— there was no way you could ask to have something stuck up your ass and not come off as queer.

But, then, there was what his head said, and there was what his cock wanted. He was already half-hard, felt like he'd been so for a week, his cock throbbing in his pants, and it seemed somehow to respond to the idea of being told to ask, of having to beg for it.

God, what was wrong with him?

But there it was, and there Stiglitz was, arms still crossed, with that expectant look on his face. He had a choice to make. And, fuck it, he was probably going to die out there in the French wilderness, and if he did manage to ever get back to Boston and celebrate the death of so many Nazis, it wasn't like this would even count. Shit happens in war. He wasn't going to go up and scalp the greengrocer, and he wasn't going to ask his postman to get on his knees either.

"Please."

Stiglitz's smirk curled higher. "Please what?"

"Please suck me off." It almost hurt to say it, but it hurt like the burn of Stigltiz's fingers, strangely fulfilling. He said it again: "Will you please suck me off?"

"No." There wasn't even a moment's hesitation, and the motherfucker looked so smug about it Donny saw red.

"The fuck?" He advanced on Stiglitz again, shoving him hard against the tree. "You goddamned kraut, this is one sick fucking joke—"

Stiglitz grabbed his shoulders, and Donny's world went spinning and only stopped when they were both on the ground, Stiglitz's weight pinning him, his lips crushed against Donny's own. He bit at Donny's lips furiously, shoving his tongue into his throat when he gasped for air, and all Donny could do was fight fire with fire, his hands gripping Stiglitz's jacket and his tongue fighting to get into his mouth.

Before he could even fully process what was happening, Stiglitz had his pants and underwear pulled down to his thighs. He shifted, pulling back, and Donny just barely caught himself from following him, chasing his tongue and his touch. Stiglitz pulled his pants down farther, bending his knees, and Donny just went with it, waiting to see what was coming next. When Stiglitz stuck three fingers in his face, pressing them against his lip, he ran his tongue over them, keeping his eyes on Stiglitz's.

"Suck," Stiglitz said, and when Donny hesitated, he pressed his fingers in harder and repeated himself.

Donny obeyed, finally feeling awkward as the large fingers invaded his mouth, pressing on his tongue. He sucked the dirt and salt from them until they were slippery with spit, and then Stiglitz pulled away, and there was that almost-familiar sensation of fingers pressing into his ass, one at a time. When the third one began to press in, Donny tensed up; two burned enough. What good was another finger?

But Stiglitz pressed in steadily, pushing Donny's shirt up at the same time, baring his stomach. He ran his free hand up under the shirt, and when he pinched lightly at Donny's nipple a Donny could feel him slipping in the third finger further along with his sharp exhale.

And then he got it, because God, three fingers was better. He felt full, stretched, fantastic; he gripped at the ground, pressing dirt into his fingernails, letting out a drawn-out groan. Stiglitz's hand left his stomach, and while he kept his fingers moving, pressing in and sometimes hitting that blessed spot inside him, he worked his own pants open, fisting his cock as he knelt next to Donny, jerking off over the bared flesh of his stomach, and Donny couldn't even protest because it felt so fucking good.

"You're going to come on just my fingers," Stiglitz said, and it was an order, not a suggestion. They were the same damned rank, Stiglitz had no right to be giving him orders, but it wasn't a bad plan, not at all.

Donny came first that time, mouth open in a silent call while his come splattered on his stomach and the ground. He laid there, feeling boneless and light and surprisingly anger-free, and he just waited. He waited, and he let Stiglitz spill on his stomach, their come mixing together on his skin.

"Where does a Nazi get a talent like that?" was the first thing he could think to say when his mouth started working again.

"A Nazi doesn't get a talent like that," Stiglitz answered, and he was composed and ready before Donny even had the sense to sit up.

"Wait, wait just a minute," Donny demanded, scrambling up and pulling his pants up one-handed, heedless of the come dripping down his stomach. "Was this just to prove some fucking point? 'Cause it doesn't. This hasn't got anything to do with trust, you got me?"

"I've got you," Stiglitz confirmed. His eyes swept over Donny again, and he smirked once more. "You might want to clean up before coming back."

As he walked off, Donny thought that maybe with Stiglitz, there was always a Thing of some sort going on.

 

It went on like that, with one of them every few days giving the other a look before walking into the woods or waking him with a shake during the night. As far as Donny could tell they hadn't raised any suspicions with the other Basterds; they all needed some time alone, and as long as none of them risked getting their heads shot off, or else getting someone else's head shot off, no one gave much of a shit about what they did in the time when they weren't killing Nazis if they kept pulling their own weight. Aldo thanked Donny, in a roundabout way, for laying off Stiglitz, but that was about the only change he could register outside himself and Stiglitz.

And there were changes in them, when nobody else was around. They weren't big changes; on some level Donny still didn't fucking trust him, and he was pretty sure Stiglitz knew that, and that he didn't like him all that much either. But with their pants down and their cocks out they were animals: Stiglitz would rut against his leg while he clawed at his back and growled for more, and if they weren't so careful of it they'd probably have had bite marks and bruises on their arms and necks. As it was, most damage was left on Donny's stomach and thighs, and eventually on Stiglitz's chest and back, when they got that far.

And then there came a day when Donny growled for more, and Stiglitz had four fingers in him already, and Donny couldn't even argue the progression of it when Stiglitz slicked himself up with some greasy, thick substance he couldn't identify and pushed into him, his cock warmer, larger, more solid than his fingers. After that it was like a drug; if Donny didn't get Stiglitz's cock inside him he didn't consider the act complete, and he felt unfilled. He didn't tell Stiglitz, but Stiglitz knew. It didn't matter; it was still win-win.

He thought they were being careful about it, too, but somewhere along the way he got reckless, pushed Stiglitz onto the ground before they were far enough away, and he didn't hear the footsteps at all, too distracted by Stiglitz pounding into him and scratching at his chest.

"Harder," he ordered, trying to push back into him. "Harder!"

Stiglitz growled in reply, and that, yeah, that was when they heard it, heard that low rumble of a voice they both knew too fucking well. Donny had no idea what he'd said, but it didn't matter what he fucking said, because he'd said it about them.

He lifted his head, and there was Wicki, standing too close to have stopped when he saw them. His expression was the very image of shock, a look Donny hadn't seen on him since the first days of the Basterds, when he'd first seen the way a man's innards looked up close and personal. It had been comical then, but it was far from that now.

Stiglitz pulled out, and they were scrambling to adjust and dress themselves while Wicki just stared, apparently dumbfounded. Then, while Donny was slipping his suspenders back up, Wicki started to laugh, slow and quiet at first, then loud, as though it was tumbling out of him and gathering force as it went on. They stared; through his laughter he said something in German, and Stiglitz frowned. He looked at Donny and jerked his head, gesturing for him to go on.

"No fucking way," Donny said, throwing his hand out in Wicki's direction. "We're fucked here! What the fuck are we—?"

Stiglitz's fist connected with his cheek, and Donny knew he could take Stiglitz in a hand-to-hand fight, so long as there weren't any concealed weapons, but he knew then that it wasn't a fight he wanted to have. Sparing Wicki one last look, he headed back to the camp, feeling like a doomed man heading to the gallows already.

But by that night things were still calm, or as calm as they ever got with the Basterds anyway. Stiglitz and Wicki returned separately, but they spent the evening talking low in German, and Donny just hoped Stiglitz was working out some deal to keep Wicki quiet.

After the fire had been put out and all the men were laid down, Stiglitz nudged him with his boot, and he followed him into the trees, feeling constantly unsure if they were far enough, even though he didn't think either of them were in the mood just then.

"He won't say anything," Stiglitz said, solemn.

"You sure?" Donny just didn't believe it could be so easy as that.

Stiglitz shrugged. "He has nothing to gain from it."

And Donny let it be, because what could he do? If Wicki was lying, it wasn't like they could stop him.

Stiglitz blew him that night, jerking off at his feet, and Donny went to sleep feeling distinctly unsatisfied.

 

The place looked like shit, but Donny figured that was about the best a Nazi deserved anyway. It was a sturdy little inn, for sure, but the mosses growing up its walls looked like some sort of plague all over it, and there were cracked windows and the front door had a broken hinge on it, so it had to be forced real hard to get it open.

It wouldn't have mattered at all, except that particular inn on the outskirts of a tiny French village was just then housing a total of two dozen Nazis, all of whom Aldo and Omar were about to drive out with a bit of smoke and flash, and probably some real shots, too. The owners of the place were sympathizers, collaborators, so the idea was to shoot everyone who came out that wasn't Aldo or Omar.

Donny felt good about it; he needed the action. His skin itched for it, had for a while. For four weeks they'd gone without seeing a single damned Nazi, and to make it worse, for those four weeks sex had been scarce between him and Stiglitz. He felt antsy in the calm moments, worried at any second that Hirschberg would call him a queer or Sakowitz would make some rude gesture. They'd notice the change in him, too; Utivich kept asking if he was okay, because he was quiet, and if he was sick he needed to deal with it because they couldn't all just stop moving and catch some disgusting disease in the middle of the French wilderness. He kept telling Utivich, in turn, to kindly fuck off.

So this was his release, a way to scratch that itch and feel like Donny fucking Donowitz again. He felt calm and ready for it.

In the front of the inn were Sakowitz, Utivich, Zimmerman, and Hirschberg; in back with Donny were Stiglitz, Wicki, and Kagan. They were silent, but thankfully not tense, though Wicki did throw him the occasional look, as though he knew something about how bad Donny needed this. But every muscle in his body was at the ready, and he couldn't spare a thought for Wicki or what he might know.

There were shots inside, and shouts, and in a moment there were Nazis pouring out, far from all of them but enough to get a good blood spatter out of, decorating the back of that shit inn. Donny reveled in it, and when the dust settled he counted eleven scalps among them. Zimmerman came around from the front and reported six there; they'd gotten jammed into the door and the ones they couldn't pick off ran back in.

Seven Nazi bodies and three French laid inside, with Omar covered in blood and both him and Aldo looking quite proud of what they'd done, but before Donny could so much as say a word to Aldo one of those corpses, not quite as dead as it had seemed at first, raised up its arm and shot a gun, not really aiming for anyone. It hit Donny, just barely, grazing his arm, but he yelled in pain, and he word have turned to shoot the fucker himself if Stiglitz hadn't already been on him, shoving his knife into the guy's neck twice before letting up.

"It's not bad," Donny insisted when Aldo looked at his arm, applying his minimal first aid knowledge. "It's a fucking scratch; I'll live."

"You're damn right you'll live," Aldo said, stepping away. "But we can't have the Bear Jew going out without making sure he can swing his bat as hard as any day. 'Sides, we've got us a whole damned inn to ourselves for the night. Might as well make use of it."

Hirschberg let out a whoop at that, and Donny figured he wouldn't mind sleeping in an actual bed for one night. The other men looked relieved at the news, and suddenly they all seemed much more tired than they had just days before. They scrounged through the place for what food they could find, and it was barely even getting dark when they decided to turn in, arranging double look-outs just in case. Wicki and Stiglitz shared the first shift, and Stiglitz gave Donny a look that suggested he ought to leave his door unlocked.

The mattress in the room Donny picked out was lumpy and smelled faintly, but after weeks upon weeks of sleeping on dirt and rocks it was like the sweetest cushion in the world. He slept easy, and when his door creaked open he drifted into consciousness instead of jumping out of it as usual. There was Stiglitz in the door, and he felt himself get hard almost right away, four weeks of fear and frustration melting off of him — until he saw that Stiglitz was followed by Wicki.

"What—" he started, but Stiglitz stopped him, raising his hand while Wicki shut the door.

"It's fine." Stiglitz smirked. "Trust me."

The words made Donny's insides feel twisted, but he couldn't quite identify the feeling, and he wasn't into introspection enough to worry about it much. Sex appeared to be in his near future, anyway; if Wicki was going to watch, well, this time he didn't give a fuck.

He stripped quickly, and Wicki laughed but he ignored him; Stiglitz followed him, taking off his own clothes slowly, in that way he had that unnerved Donny, because it wasn't supposed to be a show.

He hadn't noticed Wicki carrying in the small dish of butter, but it appeared to be their substitute for the regular thick stuff Stiglitz used, because he brought it over to the dresser and set it down, and Stiglitz immediately ran his fingers through it as though testing it. It was partly melted; he approved, it seemed, and pushed Donny until he was bent over the dresser, wasting no time in getting two fingers into him. Donny was vaguely disappointed; he'd figured, well, there was a bed, and there were they, and it would only make sense to make use of it. He said so, but Stiglitz just laughed, and then hit that spot inside him. Three fingers, then four, and Donny couldn't help but writhe on them, feeling hot and embarrassed knowing Wicki was watching him moan like a bitch. Usually they didn't get to four anymore, because neither of them could wait to get Stiglitz's cock in him, but he took his time then, and then— and then he stopped.

It took Donny a moment to realize Stiglitz had stepped away, had laid back on the bed and was stroking himself. "Well? Get on."

Oh. He could do that. Not that they had before; it was easier, easier for him anyway, to just lay back and let it all wash over him.

But maybe this was how he'd gotten Wicki to be quiet — the promise of this. Or something. Donny didn't know for sure, he just knew there was something weird going on, with Wicki smirking at him and leaning against the end of the bed, Stiglitz reclining like he had all the time in the world, both of them waiting on him.

He got on the bed, swung his leg over Stiglitz's hips. It took him a moment to get the position right, unfamiliar as it was, and just when he did Stiglitz pulled his hand away from his cock, making it so that Donny had to grab him, direct him in on his own. Once he had the head of his dick inside him, Stiglitz thrust up sharply, and Donny exhaled loud, a sound he heard echoed by Wicki not a second later. He rose up, then dropped himself down, slower than he would have liked; his legs were strong enough, but not used to the maneuver, and it took some getting used to. By the time he had a rhythm going, his hand wrapped around his cock and Stiglitz's hands on his hips, he was sure that was going to be the end of it, but then he felt another weight on the bed, and Stiglitz's hands squeezed, stilling him as best they could. He stopped moving, confused and panting, sweat dripping down his forehead and back.

There was an extra pressure, right up against Stiglitz's dick, slick and trying to enter beside him. Donny recognized it as Wicki's finger, slicked up with the butter, and he gripped the base of his cock tight, willing himself not to come at just the thought of it. He breathed deep, relaxing himself, going with it when Wicki pushed on his back, urging him to lean forward. It took time, but Wicki got three fingers into him beside Stiglitz's dick, and all the time Donny was panting, trying to stay calm, relaxed, and Stiglitz was watching him, a pleased look on his face.

Donny shuddered when Wicki pulled his fingers out, holding his breath a moment and then breathing out slow when he felt him press the head of his cock in. The slide, the drag of him pressing in beside Stiglitz was unbearable, and so good. He could feel the friction between them, feeling just what it was making Stiglitz groan deep underneath him, and it was driving him crazy, making it difficult to stay still. He needed movement, needed it bad, needed in that moment more than anything to have his brains fucked out by two men at once. But they kept still, and Wicki made unnecessary calming noises behind him — before betraying them by grabbing his arms, pulling his hand from his dick and pinning his wrists behind his back.

"Move," Wicki said then, low and smooth in his ear, and that alone made Donny's cock jerk, plead for a touch. He obeyed swiftly, ignoring that it was a subordinate giving him an order, and it ripped out a sound out of him halfway between a sigh of relief and a pained moan.

That noise set the other two in action, thrusting into him not quite in unison as he drove down, throwing his head back, barely able to stand how good it felt. Wicki pulled at his arms, making him strain up, and bit at his neck; Stiglitz's fingers dug into his hips and sides, dragging long scratches down to his thighs as he arched up. It was maddeningly good, all of it, and when Stiglitz ran his fingers almost too light, then nearly too rough up and down Donny's cock, that was it for him.

Wicki let go of his arms, reaching forward to swipe up some of his come on his fingers; Donny fell forward, catching himself over Stiglitz on his elbows, so close he could feel his breath on his face. Wicki kept thrusting in earnest, and it seemed mostly to be his momentum that kept Stiglitz going, even as he leaned forward, draping himself over Donny's back, and pressed his come-dripping fingers into Donny's mouth.

The taste was bitter, and not exceedingly unpleasant, but enough so that Donny felt a strange kind of respect for Stiglitz for letting him come in his mouth as many times as he had. The sight of him with Wicki's fingers in his mouth apparently did something to Stiglitz, who groaned loudly in German and came, then pulled Donny forward to kiss him, his tongue swiping through his mouth.

Wicki pushed and pulled on Donny's hips, making him rise higher on his knees so Stiglitz slipped out. He kept going as Stiglitz seemed to try to devour Donny from the inside out, and when he hit that spot inside him and Donny clenched, finally, he came.

In the moments after, lying between two men with both of their come dripping down his thighs, come on his tongue, Donny was pretty sure he was as queer as they come, and pretty sure he'd take a bat to the head of anyone who had an issue with that.

Nothing scares Donny fucking Donowitz. Nothing.


End file.
